


spiderman loves you

by owlinaminor



Series: author's favorites [1]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 07:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17279399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: Or: how to figure out if your son is actually Spiderman without letting him know that you suspect he’s Spiderman because you want to make sure you’re right about him being Spiderman before you ground him for the rest of his adolescent life.





	spiderman loves you

**Author's Note:**

> there's no way jefferson davis can literally adopt me, so writing this fic was the next best thing.
> 
> but actually, jefferson's and miles' relationship was my favorite part of spiderverse, and it was really cathartic for me (as someone who has a complicated relationship with her own father) to write this fic from the POV of a dad who wants to be supportive but doesn't know how and is just so incredibly stressed about it. i hope it's cathartic, or at least enjoyable, for other folks to read.
> 
> title is from the last track on the spiderverse score (thank you dan pemberton for my life), and thanks is also due to [isabel](https://twitter.com/officially_isa%22) for reading this over and helping me out with the spanish.
> 
> and a content warning: this fic contains a description of a fictional school shooting. if this is something you'd rather bypass, skip from the section beginning, "10-10, level four," to the section beginning, “I need to see Nick Fury.”

 

He’s curled up on the couch when Jefferson gets home.

“He showed up at the hospital after the earthquake,” Rio says, coming in from the kitchen.  She’s still in her scrubs, hair falling out of her braid, but backlit by the fluorescent light of the kitchen she seems otherworldly—a gift from a parallel universe brighter than this one.  He stands still for a moment, traces the wrinkles around her eyes, the curves of her cheeks, the hard lines of her hands around a bowl she’s drying.

He almost misses her next sentence.  “He sat out there to wait for you to come home.”

“And you?” Jefferson asks.  “Why are you still up?”

She smiles—soft and warm as the smell of soup wafting in from the stove.  “Do you have to ask?”

He doesn’t.  But he likes to hear it.

“Put the boy to bed, _mi amor,”_ she says.  “I kept dinner warm for you.”

He still goes to her—one minute, two, lets the pressure of her hands pull him back to earth—before sitting on the edge of the couch.

“Miles.  Hey, Miles.  Time for bed.”

The kid doesn’t stir, just shifts slightly on the cushions, one of his feet tapping as though playing an invisible drum.  Jefferson watches him: lanky legs, itchy fingers, hair that will never lay flat and shoelaces that will never stay tied.  Miles is constantly moving, a boy of Newtonian physics catapulted forward even when he insists he wants to stay in Brooklyn.  Jefferson just hopes he can keep up.

“He’s out cold,” Rio says.  “He didn’t tell me where he was during the quake, but it must’ve been close.  I’m just glad you’re both home safe.”

“Yeah,” Jefferson says softly, reaching out a hand to smooth out a wrinkle on Miles' forehead.  “Me too.”

He sits for another moment, listens to his heartbeat slow more than it has since the Brooklyn Bridge first started glitching.  And then he stands, bends down, and scoops Miles into his arms.  He’s heavy—the kid’s going through puberty, sure, but is growing this much this fast _normal,_ his jeans don’t even reach his ankles—yet still light enough that Jefferson can hoist him over his shoulder, like he did while Miles dozed off the ride back from his _abuela’s,_ and carry him to his room.

Miles doesn’t even stir when Jefferson dumps him on the bed—just curls into his pillow, muttering something incomprehensible.  Jefferson is still careful pulling the blanket up, tucking it beneath his son’s chin.  He stands and tiptoes out, then pauses in the doorway—takes in the posters, the piles of clothes, the spiral notebooks and old candy wrappers and markers all tumbling together.

“Sort your shit, Miles,” Jefferson mutters.  He goes in to stack a couple of comic books, tries to get all the _Spider-Man_ volumes in one stack and the _Incredible Hulk_ volumes in another, but there, beneath a _Planet Hulk_ omnibus, is a thick red bracelet, with a little antenna and three blue buttons arranged in a triangle.  Jefferson picks it up: the buttons make a substantial groove, easy to press, and when he runs his finger over them lightly he finds a sticky residue, like glue but stronger, like glue woven into twine.

It can’t be.

Jefferson runs back through the past few days.  His son won’t talk to him.  Reports of a kid dressed like Spiderman dragging a hobo’s corpse behind a train.  A tiny figure in a hood leaping from a skyscraper.  A new superhero standing tiny and brave, rising against Kingpin.   _Thank you for your bravery tonight.  I love you._

It _could_ be.

Jefferson looks at his son.  Really _looks,_ the way he hasn’t since Miles was twelve and blamed his broken bicycle on Mario Kart.

If this kid really is the new Spiderman, he’s going to be grounded until he graduates from college.

 

 

“What do you think of the new Spiderman?”

Miles lurches so hard, he nearly sends his cereal flying across his desk.  He looks like a marionette with all the strings pulled at once, only most marionettes wouldn’t be able to drop their mouths open that far.  Jefferson can’t help a chuckle at the sight.

“Dad, what—what’s a Spiderman—I mean, you know Spiderman died, right?” Miles splays his arms out over whatever he’s drawing, lifts the right one to move his cereal to the top of his dresser in a strangely smooth motion, then goes back to covering, head turned to stare at his father as though Jefferson is, somehow, the teenager here.

“Yeah, Spiderman died,” Jefferson says, “but there’s a new guy taking on his mantle.  A kid, I think.  Tiny—not older than sixteen, I bet.  I feel sorry for his parents.”

Miles flips something over, then takes his headphones off—takes them fully off, pulls them up and folds them and sets them on his desk.

“What do you know about him?” he asks.

Jefferson shrugs.  “Not much.  I only talked to him for a couple of minutes—”

“You _talked_ to _Spiderman?”_

“Yeah, right after you called me, actually.”

Miles rubs his sweatshirt sleeve over his face, but Jefferson can still see the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know there was a new Spiderman,” he says.  “It’s been all over the news.”

“Well, I was, uh, really tired last night,” Miles replies.  He grabs for a marker and somehow sends half the contents of his desk flying across the room.

“But yeah, I talked to him,” Jefferson goes on, pretending not to notice.  “He seems like a good kid.  A little awkward, but that’s probably just ‘cause he’s new.  I hope he gets a lot more swinging practice in before the next big villain surfaces, though.”

Miles gets his defensive face on, the one that usually means he’s about to insist his stickers are _art_ not _property damage._  But then he shakes his head, as though to clear it, and says, “That’s cool that you met him, Dad.”

Jefferson smiles, takes a step towards the door.  “I suppose it is.  Now, come on—you’ll be late for school.”

He watches Miles pack up all the shit he forgot the last time he was nearly late for school, pushes him through the house, winks at Rio, and bundles the kid into the car.

They’re halfway down Clinton before Miles yelps.

 _“Dad._ It’s _Saturday.”_

 

 

“Davis!  C’mere, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

Jefferson drops his stack of completed reports on his desk and shouts back across the office at his sergeant.  “Can it wait until I grab a cup of coffee?”

Her glare is practically audible, even across four sets of desks and a filing cabinet.  “It could’ve,” she says, “if you had been on _time.”_

“Hey, I had to drive my son to school, and you know how the traffic is—”

“Davis.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming.”  He crosses the office, dodging the other officers eating late breakfasts and speculating about what will go down in their morning briefing.  Next to Sergeant Pemberton, there’s a petite woman in a bright green jacket and white slacks, a combination she pulls off through poise alone.

“Davis,” Pemberton says, “this is Lina Sanchez.  She’s working on a story for the New York Post about the new Spiderman.”

“Nice to meet you, Officer.”  Sanchez gives Jefferson a friendly smile and sticks out a hand—her fingernails are short and stubby, out of place with the polished shine of her outfit.  Her handshake is firm, one dip down then up and release.  No nonsense.

“Likewise,” Jefferson says.  “Although I’m surprised you’re down here—84 saw most of the action, up by the bridge.”

“I talked to them yesterday,” Sanchez replies.  “But they told me one officer from Flatbush happened to be nearby, went up into Fisk Tower, and actually spoke to Spider-boy.”

Jefferson feels his heart rate speed up, as though he’s in that tower all over again.  “Oh.”

The reporter smiles at him again—but her smile has an edge this time, like a shark showing the barest parts of her teeth.  “Let’s go talk somewhere less hectic, shall we?”

“You can use the briefing room for a few minutes,” Sergeant Pemberton says.  She gives Jefferson a look, like, _we can use the good press, don’t fuck this up._

And so Jefferson takes the reporter to the briefing room, gets her coffee, and sits down in the crosshairs of her gaze.

“How long have you been with the PDNY, Officer Davis?” Sanchez asks.

 _Wasn’t this supposed to be about Spiderman?_  But he doesn’t voice the question, just counts back in his head and answers, “Fifteen years.  I started just before my son was born.”

“Fifteen years, great.”  Sanchez pulls out a notepad and writes that down, even though she’s already recording the conversation on her phone.  “And in those fifteen years, have you ever seen anything like what happened at Fisk Tower last week?”

“I mean, this is New York,” Jefferson says.  “We get weird shit.  I’ve had a few run-ins with weirdos in capes, criminals who swallowed sewage and think that makes them invincible, inexplicable blue lights over Queens, you know.  I even saw the Green Goblin once.  But Fisk Tower—that was on another level.  I don’t even know how to describe what was happening down in that lab.”

Sanchez leans in, close enough that Jefferson gets a whiff of her perfume.  “Try.”

Jefferson tries.  He describes fighting his way down to the basement lab, the fantastical dimension-bending light show he found down there, the face-off he witnessed between a tiny Spiderman and a hulking Wilson Fisk.  He goes through every detail, except for the encouragement he shouted at Spiderman when Fisk threw him down—nobody needs to know that he shouted _get up_ at a superhero like he was some kid in a playground, and anyway, Spiderman probably hadn’t heard him.

“This is all very useful,” Sanchez says, still scribbling frantically.  He tries to peek over her shoulder to get a glimpse of her notes, but either she has some kind of secret code or the worst handwriting in history, because he can’t read a word.

“Now,” she goes on, “the officers I talked to at the 84th Precinct told me you also interacted with Spiderman after you brought Tombstone out of the Tower.  Is this correct?”

Jefferson rubs the back of his neck.  “Yeah.  I mean, just for a minute.  I thanked him for what he did, saving the city, and he gave me a hug and thanked me for my bravery, although I really didn’t do anything special, and then he said _look behind you_ and that’s when we all noticed Fisk tied up between two buildings.”

“Wait a second.”  Sanchez pauses her pen and looks at Jefferson, makes eye contact for the first time since they sat down.  “He gave you a hug?  Why?”

“I don’t know,” Jefferson replies.  “But I think—I mean, this new Spiderman, he’s younger than Peter Parker was.  I don’t know how old, and it’s hard to guess since he has that suit and all, but when he talked to me he did this fake voice disguise thing, like he was pretending he’d finished puberty when he hadn’t.  A kid, going up against Fisk, doing I can’t even imagine what to get him to that point, he must’ve been pretty freaked out.  Maybe I was the first friendly face he saw, and he just reacted to it.  Kid or not, though, he’s strong—his hug nearly crushed my lungs.”

“A kid,” Sanchez repeats.  She breaks from writing again and sucks on the end of her pen.  “That gives this story a new angle.  Do you think his family knows?”

Jefferson suddenly regrets every single life choice he has made up to this moment.  “Um,” he says, dropping his palms to his lap to try to hide the sweat.  “I don’t, uh—"

“Hey, Jefferson!” Sergeant Pemberton shouts from the doorway.  He looks up to see her glowering at him, the rest of the squad a few steps behind her.  “Interview time’s up, we’ve gotta do our briefing before Howard has to piss again.”

Sanchez narrows her eyes, but has little recourse as the whole squad starts filing in behind her.  “Alright, Officer Davis,” she says, getting to her feet.  “I suppose that will have to be all.  Thank you for your time.  My article should be out within the next few days, but you may be hearing from me further.”

And she marches out, heels clicking on the tile floor.  Jefferson spares a moment to thank God and Jesus for cutting that interview short before turning his attention to the briefing.

 

 

 _“Corazón,_ have you seen Miles this morning?”

Jefferson looks up from his paper.  Sunlight is pouring in through the kitchen windows, lunch dishes are all lined up on the drying rack, he’s on his second beer, and Rio is in her scrubs, getting ready for her Sunday afternoon shift.

“Did he not get breakfast?” he asks.  “Or lunch?”

Rio shakes her head.  “I thought maybe he came in and grabbed something, then went back to his room, you know how he gets, but all the cereal boxes are intact.”

“Kid is home for two days a week, and he can’t even spend a few hours with his family?”  Jefferson gets up, pushing his chair back with a _squeak._  He goes and bangs on Miles’ bedroom door.

“Hey!  Rise and shine!”

A faint grumbling emanates through the door.

Jefferson waits for a more coherent response, then, when none is forthcoming, opens the door and marches inside.  Miles is curled up under his blanket, one arm splayed out and his feet (still in socks) poking out at the bottom of the bed.  He seems completely immune to the sunlight coming in from his window and the sound of Jefferson’s approaching footsteps.

Jefferson yanks the blanket off and leans down, gets his nose right up by Miles’ ear.

“MILES!”

Miles flinches—one arm flails up and decks Jefferson right in the nose.  He packs quite a punch—Jefferson’s impressed.  And sore.  He’ll have to ice that later.

“Dad, what the hell,” Miles complains, turning over onto his other side, eyes still closed.  “Let me sleep.”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Jefferson replies.  “You’ve slept enough.  Now come say goodbye to your mom before she goes off to save lives.”

Jefferson goes back out to the hallway, but keeps the door open so that he can hear the dull _thump_ of Miles rolling out of bed, followed by several fainter _thump_ s as Miles rummages through his piles of clothes for clean jeans and a T-shirt.  He emerges a couple of minutes later, just in time to give Rio a kiss before she heads out.

Miles waves her off, then pads into the kitchen.  He pulls out a box of Cheerios and a gallon of milk, but every other movement is punctuated by an enormous yawn.

“What time did you go to sleep last night?” Jefferson asks, fascinated.

Miles gets down a bowl and starts pouring, then another yawn makes him spill cereal all over the counter.  “I—uh—eleven?  I was just really tired, Dad.  The homework they give us at this school, it’s so hard, I barely got any sleep the whole week.”

Jefferson looks at his son.  Miles meets his gaze and smiles, sheepish, like Jefferson just caught him slipping spray paint into his backpack.  The pause goes on for far too long.

“Well,” Jefferson finally says.  “I’m glad you’re putting in the effort.  But sleep is important too, Miles.”

“Yeah, I know, Dad.  I’ll do better next week.”

As Miles turns back to his cereal, Jefferson catches sight of a bruise on the back of his neck—it’s new, he definitely hasn’t seen it before, but is already purple and fading.

Jefferson takes his paper into the living room.

 

 

“Mr. Davis?  This is Leo Cabral, the chief security officer at Brooklyn Visions.”

Jefferson drops the brief he was reading, presses the phone closer to his ear.  He glances around the office—mostly deserted, except for one other officer working on a report on the other side of the room.

“Yes, Mr. Cabral,” he says.  “I remember you—we spoke when my son moved in.  What can I do for you?”

“I’m going to be blunt,” Cabral replies.  His voice is stern, all hard consonants, even over the phone.  It had reassured Jefferson on move-in day—the right voice for a man running security at a prestigious middle school, the middle school hosting _Miles Morales—_ but right now, that same tone makes Jefferson grip the edge of his desk.

“Miles has been sneaking out.  I don’t have evidence for this—he gets past our cameras somehow, and it would be against school policy to survey his room through any other means.  But he often misses breakfast, falls asleep in class more than any other student, and never attends evening extracurricular activities or social events.  So, I have a hunch.  And my hunches are rarely wrong.”

Jefferson tightens his grip.  “What do you plan to do with this hunch?”

“There’s nothing I can do right now,” Cabral says.  “I’ll continue to keep an eye on him, but my suspicions aren’t enough to discipline Miles.  This is why I’m calling you.  You seem like a respectable guy, Mr. Davis.  You know the importance of a growing boy, especially one as talented as Miles, putting in his full effort and staying in school.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then talk to him, this weekend.  You know your son better than I do.  Find out what’s going on, and put an end to it.  You don’t have to tell me—I’ll just be happy to see Miles succeed.”

“Thank you for the call, Mr. Cabral,” Jefferson says.  Every syllable feels oddly forced, as though he’s speaking from ten feet underwater.  “I’ll talk to Miles.”

“Great.  Happy to hear it.”

Jefferson hits _End Call,_ then places the phone on his desk, rests his elbows over it, and drops his head into his hands.   _Breathe,_ he tells himself.   _In, out.  In, out.  Calm down.  Calm down._

_You know your son better than I do._

Does he?

Jefferson counts to one hundred, slowly, then picks himself up and finishes his paperwork.

 

 

The house is quiet, when Jefferson gets home.

Rio left a light on in the kitchen and a note on the fridge about leftovers he could heat up for dinner.  But he isn’t hungry.  He hangs his hat by the door, hangs his jacket on a chair, watches his shadow hover in the doorway between the master bedroom and Miles’.

Jefferson goes back into the kitchen.  Takes off his shoes.  Maybe he will have something to eat, after all.  He heats up the leftovers—empanadas, delicious enough after half a minute in the microwave that he wishes he got home earlier—and sits at the kitchen table, devours half the container and then sits staring at the other half.

_You know your son better than I do._

The leftovers are taunting him.  Jefferson doesn’t know his son.  He hasn’t known him since Miles was in diapers, tiny enough that he could fit on Jefferson’s shoulder, tug at his hair and shout when Jefferson started running with him onboard and demand _faster, Papá, faster._

_Faster, Papá, faster._

Jefferson isn’t hungry anymore.  No—he feels nauseous.  He bundles up the rest of the empanadas and returns to the hallway.  Stands there a moment.  A siren wails somewhere in the distance.  Is Miles out there chasing it?  Is Miles about to burst through that window—exhausted, or injured, or worse?

Jefferson pushes open Miles’ door.  He scans the room, all dark shapes in the faint light coming in from streetlights at the nearest corner: an open suitcase, a pile of dirty laundry, a desk covered in books, a bed with a distinctly Miles-shaped lump in the middle.

Jefferson lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.  He pads into the room, quiet as a shadow, and sits down on the edge of Miles’ bed.  Miles is sleeping curled up, his blanket half thrown off, his knees tucked up beneath his chin.  He’s breathing softly, in and out.  Here in the twilight, Jefferson can’t see if Miles has any new scratches, new bruises, new battle scars—he only sees the shape of his son’s nose, the bounce in his hair, the curl of his fingers closed in a fist.

“It’s you, isn’t it,” Jefferson whispers.

Miles doesn’t move.  He just keeps breathing—in and out, in and out.

“It has to be,” Jefferson goes on.  “Either it’s you, or I need to find the parents of some other insane teenage Spiderman and tell them to ground their kid.  Only I—I don’t know what to do with you, Miles.  I can’t let you go, but I can’t make you stay and make you hate me.  And if you’re Spiderman—if you took down Wilson Fisk—what power do I even have?  Why are you still even here?”

Jefferson started off whispering but he’s talking now, almost at full volume.  He stops himself and reaches out a hand, curls his fingers around Miles’ fist.

“I want to keep supporting you,” he whispers.  “I want to be who you need me to be.  But you’ve gotta keep coming home, Miles.  Just keep coming home.”

Jefferson sits there for a moment, head bowed, then carefully, carefully peels his hand away and stands back up.  He pulls the blanket back up, arranges it so that it’s fully covering Miles.

“Goodnight,” he says.  And he tiptoes back out the door, closes it softly behind him.

 

 

_“10-10, level four, we have an active shooter situation at Brooklyn College.  I repeat, we have an active shooter situation at Brooklyn College.”_

Jefferson doesn’t take time to think—just reacts, swings the car left onto Nostrand and switches on the siren, tightens his grip on the wheel and slams his foot on the gas pedal.

“10-4,” his partner says into the radio.  “This is Diaz and Davis from the 67th Precinct.  We’re three blocks away, heading there now.”

The streets pass in a blur of lights and honking horns, and then they’re screeching to a halt just in front of the performing arts center, jumping out of the car, rushing to meet the police and campus security guards clustered in front of a long brick building with three towering archways.

They get briefed quickly by a campus security officer, a short, stern woman with a tight bun and her hands planted squarely on her hips.  The shooter is a young man, white, medium height, skinny build, believed to be a student.  He entered with his weapon concealed in a backpack, went to the fourth floor, and opened fire in a small classroom.  Officers are going up in teams to secure different parts of the building.  Since the building is old and doesn’t have many cameras, they aren’t sure where the shooter will go or what he’ll do next.

“Where do you need us?” Jefferson asks.

“You two can be the next team.  Take the second floor, east side, there are some major administrative offices there.”

He nods, pulls out his gun—and then he’s inside, boots clanging on the tiled floor.  It’s almost eerie, how quiet this is, all off-white walls and faint echoes, as though the threat of violence has transformed this building into the set of a horror film.  Jefferson tightens his focus, grounds himself in the weight of his hat on his head, the clench of his fingers around the barrel of his gun.  He can do this.  No kids are dying on his watch.

“Stop right there.  Turn around.  Hands above your head.”

Jefferson turns.  Diaz turns.  There he is—a spindly kid in a dark sweatshirt, hood pulled up, pointing a gun right at them.  The shooter’s fingers are scrambling for purchase—even from the other end of the hallway, Jefferson can see how much he’s shaking.

“Drop—drop your weapons, or I’ll—”

_Thwip._

A thin fiber launches out from above the shooter, grabs the gun out of his hand, and sends it flying down the hallway.  It lands a few hundred feet in front of them with a _thud._

“What the—”

_Thwip._

And before the shooter can say anything another fiber launches out, this time from right in front of him, and hits him right in the mouth.  Like a muzzle, only made of… is that a _spiderweb?_

 _Thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip._  More fibers launch out, binding the guy’s arms, legs, chest, until he loses his balance and falls to the floor, squirming like a fly caught in a web.

Only then does a figure take shape from thin air, standing between Jefferson and his partner and the shooter.  A short figure, dressed in black, with red around his shoulders and a mask covering his face and—the emblem of a spider on his chest, revealed now as the kid turns and faces Jefferson and Diaz.

Jefferson’s heart drops to his stomach.

“Hey.”  Miles— _Spiderman_ starts to give a small wave, then stops when his eyes land on Jefferson and drops his hand.  “Oh—uh—hi.”  He’s doing that fake-deep voice again.  Jefferson would laugh if he wasn’t _this close_ to stressing himself into cardiac arrest.  “Didn’t realize you were here.  I’m, um.  Glad I could help.  But I’ve gotta go, I’m late for ma—I mean, I’m late for a meeting.  With, uh, Daredevil.  Important superhero stuff.  Gotta go.  _Adiós!”_

And just like that, Spiderman pops back out of sight.  But Jefferson can still hear him running down the hallway, sneakers slapping on the tile.

“Man,” Diaz says wonderingly.  “He really is just a kid.”

Jefferson watches the empty space for a moment, pretends he can see Miles racing back to school.  Gotta swing in and out, zip zap zop, if you’re running late for math class.

“Yeah,” Jefferson says.  “He really is.”

 

 

“I need to see Nick Fury.”

The office is exactly as Jefferson remembers it: all hard lines and monochrome furniture, the president guarding one wall and Captain America guarding another, a secretary in towering heels who could probably kick Jefferson’s ass with a hairpin if the opportunity presented itself.

The secretary looks up at Jefferson, blinks slowly as he stomps onto the polished tile in his uniform boots and slams his hat on her desk with a dull _thud._

“Hello,” she says, not looking up from her monitor.  “Can I help you?”

“I just said, I’m here to see Nick Fury.”

“Sure.  Do you have an appointment?”

Jefferson picks his hat back up off the desk and moves his hands behind his back, squares his shoulders.  “Don’t need one.”

The secretary keeps clacking away.  “Nobody sees Director Fury without an appointment.”

Director Fury, huh.  The asshole’s really been making a name for himself out there.  Jefferson gives the office another once-over, this time catches a glint of gold on the door—some variation on a Medal of Valor.

“Tell him it’s Jefferson Davis,” Jefferson says.  He gives the secretary a nod, as though they’re old friends, and settles down on a nearby couch to wait.  (Or settles as well as he can, considering the leather sofa seems more equipped to be base for cutting meat than a place of comfort.)

After about an hour, or about twenty rounds of Temple Run, the secretary coughs meaningfully.  “Director Fury will see you now.”

Jefferson stands and gives her another nod.  “Thank you.”  He stands—squares his shoulders—and marches to the inner part of the office.

“Davis.  To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Fury, like his office, is the same hard lines and monochrome: the only changes Jefferson can spot are the wrinkles emanating from behind his glasses (slightly more pronounced), his dark suit (slightly more expensive), and his movements as he approaches to shake Jefferson’s hand (slightly more stiff).  Jefferson keeps his grip firm, but not too firm—the same careful handshake he uses when meeting superior officers at work functions.

“The new Spiderman,” he says.  “What do you know about him?”

Fury is silent for a moment—scanning Jefferson from behind his glasses, no doubt—then steps behind his tall, mahogany desk and takes a seat.  He indicates for Jefferson to sit in the hard-backed chair on the other side of the desk, but Jefferson focuses on the floor-to-ceiling window behind it: Manhattan in the twilight, stretched out and glittering like a planetarium show seen from far too close.

“You know, if you need information for an investigation, you could just put in an official request,” Fury says.

Jefferson shakes his head.  “This isn’t an investigation.  It’s a personal curiosity.  I need to know your opinion of him, and you can’t ask me why.”

Fury’s expression is unchanging, hard as the lines of his suit.  “What I know and what I think are two different entities.”

“Then let me clarify: I need to know what you think of his abilities and his position in New York City.  Call this a payout, for that favor you owe me.”  Jefferson takes a step closer to the desk, links his hands behind his back to prevent them from shaking.

“Sure, Davis.  We can call it a payout.”  Fury stands back up and turns to his window.  He gestures for Jefferson to follow.  Jefferson goes, but keeps his hands clenched, right hand gripping the brim of his hat as though his life depends on it.

“Look at this city,” Fury says.  “All these lights, all these shadows.  All these dark corners for monsters to hide.  The new Spiderman, like any other superhero, needs to walk the tightrope between the light and the dark.  He’s flashier than some—swinging above buildings, flying with the birds, inviting the press—but his goals are the same.  Protect the city.  Protect its people.”

“And how’s he doing so far?”

Fury looks down, watching something on the street below that Jefferson can’t quite make out.  “He’s reckless.  Definitely a show-off.  And clearly just a kid, I’d put him at seventeen or eighteen.  But he’s creative, always coming at things from new angles.  And he’s embodied the hope of this city, bringing it back after Parker died in a way I thought was impossible.”

Jefferson spends a moment, tries to find a better way to phrase his next question, but eventually just lets it out.

“Is he safe?”

Fury turns and looks at Jefferson—he can feel the disdain, even through the glasses.  “He leaps off of skyscrapers just to get around.”

Jefferson shakes his head.  “I know, I know, but I mean—can he handle himself out there?  If he’s just a kid, like you said.”

Fury keeps looking at Jefferson.  It’s this gaze—this cloaked intensity, this sense of being flayed open, this knowledge that he could throw himself against that glass window and this man would just sigh and call for cleanup—that made him sign on in the first place.

But Jefferson is older now.  He has more weight to his footsteps, more to protect.  He stares back.

“Spiderman is learning,” Fury finally says.  “Faster than any new hero I’ve ever seen.  He’s not the strongest New York City has to offer yet, but he’s working hard—he’s on his way.”  Fury shifts his gaze, watches the lights: a taxi speeds by, a subway rattle over the Manhattan bridge, a group of kids jumps and laughs on their way to a party.

And then Fury looks back to Jefferson.  “Did that answer your question?”

“Well.”  Jefferson clears his throat—realizes, suddenly, that he’s stopped shaking.  “One more thing.  If, hypothetically, you were this Spiderman’s dad, would you give him a curfew?”

Fury smiles at him—the kind of smile that would be a normal person’s head-thrown-back belly laugh.  “Do you think he’d follow it?”

 

 

“Hey, Mateo, you got the new Daredevil issue yet?”  Jefferson pushes into the comics shop, shawarma in one hand and radio in the other, volume turned all the way up just in case he needs to cut his lunch break short again.

The shop is cramped as always—it looks less like a place of business and more like the cave of a dragon who hordes Avengers back issues instead of gold.

There is a crash, a faint clattering, and a short series of thuds, then Mateo emerges from the indie corner, carrying a stack of likely priceless self-published books like they’re so many tabloid newspapers.

“Jeff!  Hey!”  Mateo blinks behind his wire-framed glasses.  He reaches up with his non-comics hand and pulls his dark hair into a loose ponytail.  “No new issues of your dude this week, sorry.  But you might like this—you know that new Spiderman?”

Jefferson starts to answer, but Mateo cuts him off.  “What am I talking about, of course you know the new Spiderman.  Everyone from here to Yonkers knows you met the kid, you lucky bastard.”

Jefferson tries to chuckle, but it comes out forced.  He clips the radio onto his belt and reaches that hand up to rub the back of his neck.  “I wouldn’t say I _met_ him, exactly.  Just talked for a second.”

“Still!” Mateo exclaims.  “That’s way closer to a superhero than I’ll ever get.  Point is—the kid’s got a comic run of his own, now.  _Ultimate Spider-Man._  Check it out—we’ve got a whole display over by the register.”  Mateo jerks his chin towards the side of the store.  “Or, well, we _had_ a whole display, now we’ve got a few issues.  New Spider-boy’s selling faster than that first _Mighty Thor_ run.”

The first time Jefferson came to this store, he was twelve years old and hopelessly lost after a game of Hide and Seek Tag with Aaron went way too far.  It had started raining, and he was cold and hungry and this close to pissing on the next fire hydrant he saw.  Mateo—then just the new kid behind the register—had taken him in, let him use the employees' bathroom to do his business and use an old map to figure out his way home, and had given him a few Daredevil comics to pore over until the rain stopped.  Jefferson never let Aaron set the rules for Hide and Seek Tag after that, but he kept going back to the comic store—fell in love with Hulk and Black Panther and Spiderman, snuck comics behind his history books and onto family car trips and into his backpack on the worst of his jobs with Aaron, reminded himself that anyone, _anyone,_ can be strong and good and heroic, if they put their mind to it.

And now, stacked proudly on this very same counter, just out of splash zone from where Jefferson drops his shawarma, is a comic book with his son grinning up from the cover.  The design is simple: an action shot, Spiderman poised to jump from the middle of a New York City street, cars and buildings and sky all blurring together behind him, his feet braced on two different taxi cars as he faces the viewer with his mask on.  He’s going forward fast, ready to leap into the sky and rise to his next challenge.  Ready to take on anything.

And, at the top of the picture, there’s a title in bold, red lettering: _The Ultimate Spider-Man._

_I see this spark in you.  It’s amazing._

“You know, you’re allowed to pick the book up, Jeff.”

Jefferson realizes he’s been standing with one arm outstretched, fingers hanging in space just above the stack of comics. He breathes in—reaches down.  Picks up the book.

He almost doesn’t want to open it, to get his sweaty, shawarma-sticky fingers on the fresh pages, but he has to open it.  He has to.

And it’s all here: all Miles, only it isn’t quite Miles but a brown kid from Brooklyn who looks vaguely like Miles only with two more years’ worth of puberty, but it’s Miles behind the mask, Miles going to throw up some art in a restricted area, Miles stumbling on a spider, Miles meeting Peter Parker and being entrusted with a key, Miles learning to swing, Miles going after Fisk… It must be half-idealized, all the dialogue is stilted and the plot doesn’t quite make sense and there’s no way Miles picked up the techniques that quickly (it took him a month to puzzle through osmosis, for fuck’s sake).

But still, it’s Miles behind the mask.  This is a kid from Brooklyn moving too fast for his own skin, painting the world in colors so bright, it’s the least New York City can do to take some notice.  Miles doesn’t just swing between the buildings.  He rises.  Lighter than the wind, the sirens, the sunlight reflecting from a million open windows.

And here, on the last page, is a cop with a heavy build and a tight grip on his hat.

 _Thank you for your bravery tonight,_ Spiderman says.  He salutes with a peace sign, then braces for his next leap.

Jefferson wipes his eyes on the back of his sleeve.  Takes a deep breath, tries to keep his voice level as he says—

“I’ll take two.”

 

 

This is Jefferson’s Christmas present to Miles.  A copy of the _Ultimate Spider-Man_ comic, with an inscription on the last page.  Under the dialogue between Spiderman and the cop, Jefferson writes:

 

 

> _I love you.  I’m proud of you.  Don’t tell your mom. — Dad_

 

 

_“DAD!”_

The door bangs in against the chair sitting just inside Jefferson’s large closet-turned-tiny study, then bangs out against the hallway wall, then _IN, OUT, IN, OUT, in, out, in, out,_ a slowly swinging pendulum.  It’s got a nice rhythm to it, actually.  Jefferson could make a decent beat out of this.  But instead he waits for the full decrescendo before turning around in his chair and lowering his glasses.

“Miles.”

“What does this mean?”  Miles holds up the _Ultimate Spider-Man_ comic, open to the last page.  The expression on his face is incredible—part anger, part terror, all manic teenager energy.  Jefferson remembers that, from the time his mother caught him and Aaron sneaking out to paint subway cars.

“Okay, come inside, and shut the door,” Jefferson says.  “And don’t hold it on the crease like that, you’ll damage the spine.”

Miles steps in—slow, wary, and pulls the door closed.  It lands with a soft _thump._

“I didn’t know you read comics, Dad.”

“Course I do.  How else would I keep up with New York’s heroes?”

Miles looks at him, expression morphing into part anger, part terror, part embarrassment.  “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

Jefferson smiles and beckons his son in closer.  Miles takes a couple more steps until he’s standing just before the desk, hands clasped behind his back, trembling like a weathervane in a thunderstorm.

“Miles, I meant what I wrote,” Jefferson says.  “I don’t want to know more.  The more I know, the closer I get to grounding you until you’re out of college.  But I also know that this city needs Spiderman.  I don’t always approve of his methods, but I admire him.  I’m proud of him.  I love him.  And I’ll support him from the ground, as well as I can.”

Miles look sat him another moment—eyes getting wide as stars—and then drops the comic and crushes Jefferson in a hug.  He’s so strong, he nearly squeezes Jefferson’s breath out.

That’s what this is, this tightness in Jefferson’s chest.  Shortness of breath.  Not Jefferson crying.  Definitely not Jefferson crying.

“Just remember, with great ability comes great accountability,” Jefferson says, his voice halfway to hoarse.

Miles starts shaking again, and it takes Jefferson a terrified few seconds to realize he’s laughing, muffled by the front of Jefferson’s shirt.

“Thanks, Dad,” Miles says.  “I love you.”

Jefferson puts his arms around his son and holds him, as though he’s every slip of spiderweb and gust of wind and side of a building in the five boroughs.

“Yeah,” he says.  “I love you, too.”

 

 

Jefferson changes, does a few stretches, flops forward onto the bed, and is halfway through his daily chapter of this month’s political biography before he notices what Rio is reading.

She catches him staring and smiles at him, that terrible smile that means she’s about to metaphorically toss him into a dumpster and he’s gonna look at her like she hung the moon anyway, then carefully marks her place with a sticky note, folds the book, and sets it on her night table.

“You gave him this?” she says.   _“Dios mío,_ were you _trying_ to give our son a heart attack?”

“I, uh.”  Jefferson tries to find a good way of saying that it seemed like a good balance between a scolding and a commendation, and he’s been trying to hard to be a supportive dad these past few weeks, really, he convinced his precinct to put up a whole mural, doesn’t he deserve _some_ credit, before the crux of the question hits him.

“How did you know?”

Rio shakes her head.   _“Es obvio._  He keeps trying to wash that suit in the kitchen sink when he thinks I’ve gone to bed, and he’s taken all my baby powder.   I’m surprised you didn’t realize it sooner.”

“I did—I mean, I suspected, but—I didn’t want—do you mean you’re okay with it?”

“That our son is New York’s newest superhero?  Yes, it's not what I had in mind when I told him to try more extracurriculars.  But I trust him.  _Tengo fe._  And he seems happy doing it, like he finally knows what he wants to do with himself.

“And besides.”  Rio reaches down and takes Jefferson’s hand, presses a kiss to his knuckles.  “I know you’ll be there, watching out for him.”

“Yeah.”  Jefferson shifts his hand so that he’s holding hers, tight as a promise.  “I’ll be there.”

 

 

“Yo, Davis, did you hear about this?” Diaz holds up his phone.

“What?” Jefferson asks between bites of his sandwich.  “Man, you know I can’t see shit without my glasses on, give it here.”

Diaz sighs, passes the phone across the car.  “You really are an old man.”

“I’m two years older than you.”  Jefferson lowers his glasses and peers at his partner’s phone.  “Okay, what am I looking at?”

“Someone put a sticker up on top of the Chrysler Building,” Diaz says.  “Right on one of those lion gargoyles.  It must’ve been up there for weeks, but an ABC news copter just noticed it yesterday on the side of some aerial shot.  Wild, right?  The only one who could get up there is Spiderman.”

The article is short, basically giving the same information that Diaz just summarized, so Jefferson focuses in on the picture: a simple, yellow “MY NAME IS” sticker with a single word, printed in bold red letters.  The photo is blurry, but the word is clearly _SPIDERMAN._

Jefferson would recognize that lettering anywhere.  

Oh, God.  There’s no way he can get Miles to take that one down.  He tries to muster the same rightful disdain for the defacement of public property that usually builds when he catches Miles’ handiwork, but all that builds this time is a laugh, bubbling up like Newtonian physics, unbridled motion.  He can’t wait to tell Rio about this.

 

 

He texts Miles a link to the article.

> _I’m not going to make you take it down.  But at least send me a better picture._

Miles responds, an hour later, with a photo: his grinning face, mask pulled half-up, upside down next to the sticker, with the afternoon sky glittering behind him, bright and warm as the first day of spring.

Jefferson can’t stop smiling for the rest of his shift.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the cover of the comic jefferson gives to miles is based on [miles morales: ultimate spiderman variant 1b](https://www.mycomicshop.com/search?TID=25623842)
> 
> come yell with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/owlinaminor)
> 
>  **update, 1/20/19:** @_mechinaries on twitter did some [incredible art](https://twitter.com/_mechinaries/status/1085727365639004160) of the "it's you, isn't it" scene! also, thank you so much to everyone who has read/commented on this fic, i've been really blown away by the reception this has gotten and i'm so happy that people are connecting to it. ❤️❤️❤️


End file.
